


Raising Cain

by effywho



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Family Drama, Getting Together, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Written Pre-Show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-11-21 00:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18134366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effywho/pseuds/effywho
Summary: Final chapter now up: "So it was that Crowley found himself in St James Park with an old tire iron in his back pocket, about tosquare up to an Archangel (and not in a sexy way).".After a month of relative peace, Aziraphale and Crowley begin to face ramifications for the Little Apocalypse That Couldn't. Right when things were getting good, too...





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

It had been one month. One month in which the world turned, against all odds. A month in which people stubbed their toes and cursed loudly, babies were born to proud, anxious parents, and fussy angels got their nails done on the regular. Somewhere, in the very backs of their minds, everyone knew something was different. The world had shifted somehow, so imperceptible as to be unnoticeable. Unnoticeable to all but Crowley, and by extension, the angel he fixated on.

It hadn't always been this way, Crowley tried dutifully to convince himself. He hadn't always been so deeply concerned with the ins-and-outs of Aziraphale's day-to-day business. Certainly, he hadn't always been so interested in the colour of his eyes, or the way the warm skin around them crinkled when he laughed. Or the ways he would touch Crowley so casually that the demon wondered if Aziraphale noticed he was doing it at all. No, he decided. It had all started That Day, at the Airbase.

Crowley found himself outside Aziraphale's door, as he had so many times before, without remembering exactly how he'd got there. The Bentley stood jealously behind him. He patted the door absently.

"Well, old girl," he said. "Here goes nothing." He knocked on the door.

***

"We're closed, terribly sorry, do go away!" Aziraphale called cheerfully from the back room of the book shop.

There was a brief respite, in which Aziraphale settled back into his veritable nest of first-editions. Then the knock sounded again. The angel frowned. The three knocks were clear as day, Aziraphale could almost taste the anxiety emanating from them.

"Crowley?"

Deciding finally that it warranted further investigation, Aziraphale made his way to the dead-bolted old door. It was famously not an easy threshold to cross, Aziraphale granted, but since when had that included Crowley?

Aziraphale began to feel uneasy. He wrenched the door open and blinked at the rain-soaked demon he found before him.

"Crowley?" he said again.

"Um. Hello, I, um." Crowley groaned. "Can I come in?"

With this, Aziraphale wrapped one arm around the demons cold shoulders, ushering him into the blessedly warm book shop. "Of course, dear boy. Come in."

He rubbed Crowley's arm briskly and hugged him to his side as he swept them into the back room, clicking doors shut behind them with the power Crowley had evidently forgotten he had.

He steered Crowley into a big squashy armchair that hadn't been there a second ago and materialised an ugly woollen blanket to go over his miraculously warm and dry body.

"There now," he said, clucking motherly. "Really, my dear, you must take more care. I know we can dispel a cold easily enough but that doesn't mean we can't feel downright uncomfortable when one comes on, as you well know."

Aziraphale tittered on as he fixed them both a cup of hot cocoa by hand (miracles just didn't  _taste right_ ).

Crowley took it gratefully. His heart thrummed a little as their hands brushed. It was ridiculous.

"So, my dear boy, what brings you here on this dreadful night?" Aziraphale settled into his own armchair, seemingly reassured that Crowley had suffered only a momentary lapse of judgment.

He looked at his deceptively ordinary watch (it was, Crowley knew, worth almost as much as his Bentley.) "My, and it _is_  night time, isn't it?"

Crowley groaned again. "You don't sleep, angel."

"Yes, well, you do. I'm just concerned about you, you know," Aziraphale said into his cocoa.

Crowley winced. "Sure you are." He took a sip of the cocoa. It was good. "Mm, have you got anything stronger, by the way?"

Aziraphale stopped pouting into his drink to eye him suspiciously. "Of course. And what was that supposed to mean?  _Sure I am."_ he made a hopeless if an amusing attempt at air quotes, "I should hope you know by now that I care for you very much."

This evidently caused Aziraphale some discomfort to say, but he pushed on irregardless.

"Really, Crowley, what is all this about? Knocking on my door, and," he sniffed meaningfully, "And you've started without me!" Aziraphale got to his feet in outrage.

"Oh no,  _no_ , well not really," Crowley attempted. He looked down at his hands with interest. "A bit of Dutch courage, maybe."

Aziraphale, who was well on his way into a bottle of red, stopped dead. He put the corkscrew down on the table.

"Dutch courage? Whatever for?"

Crowley put his head in his hands and, to Aziraphale immense alarm, began to sob. He abandoned the wine completely in favour of panicking.

"Crowley! What is it? What's wrong? Are you - " he stopped the silly question before he asked it. He really  _was_ crying. Aziraphale dithered in abject pain before he managed to pat his friend uselessly on the shoulder, cringing at how cold the gesture felt. He hadn't seen Crowley cry since the 14th century.

Crowley's glasses slipped off onto the ground, and the demon kicked them aside. He wiped his eyes self-consciously, feeling wretched.  

He inhaled sharply, sniffled, and made a weak attempt at laughter.

"Ah. Well." He said. "I must've drank more than I thought I did." He wiped his nose. "Note to self: leave drinking alone to the humans. I really must apologise for that one. Now, where's that Sauvignon?"

The bravado was so terrible that Aziraphale considered starting to cry himself. An old, niggling pain played in his gut. He tried to ignore it, concentrating on his friend's request. The wine he could do. Feelings...that was more difficult.

The problem was that something had happened. Something had changed. That Damn Airbase. That was the problem.

Aziraphale stole a glance at Crowley as he poured their drinks. As usual, he was struck by something like an antidote at the sight. He was just so... _Crowley_. Aziraphale shook himself. How unbecoming of an angel, he thought, wanting anything more than this, and from a  _demon_ , no less! Scratch that, from Crowley! The poor dear was clearly still in a state of anxiety, fearing repercussions from Hell for their actions That Day. It was downright wrong to look at him like that, that's what it was, and in this state ...Aziraphale swallowed loudly and retook his place opposite the demon in question, preparing himself to be the very epitome of a respectable friend, if not a respectable angel.

Crowley grinned at him as he took the offered glass, and chinked it against Aziraphale's. A trace of devil-may-care had returned to his ethereal features.

Wait.  _Ethereal? Where did that come from?_ Aziraphale gulped.

Mid-self-censorship, he met Crowley's perceptive, yellow eyes. They looked into him as into a  mirror. Before long they looked away, laughed nervously, and continued to just drink companionably into the night.

***

So it goes, they act like nothing has changed, when everything has. 

Crowley continues to show up at Aziraphale's door at all hours; the angel has stopped hinting he should leave. At a push, he would tell him not to go. As it is they content themselves with drunken half-confessions and light touches. After all, what is time to immortal beings? Apocalypse be damned, they've never rushed before, why start now? That's what they tell themselves anyway. 

Then something happens to change everything, again.

***

"Whoa there," Crowley stifles a laugh as Aziraphale collides with him in the atrium of the sparsely lit bookshop. He slides his glasses down his nose and eyes him amusedly. "Miss me, angel?"

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale breathes. "I was on my way to see you actually, I was in rather a rush."

He pulls nervously on his collar and Crowley catches panic flitting over the familiar face. Concerned, he puts a steadying hand on the angel's shoulder, fingers curling there automatically.

"What's wrong?" He asks. "Aziraphale, have you heard from Them?"

"Not as such." Aziraphale wrings his hands between them. "My dear, I'm going to tell you two things that, if repeated, could lead to my immediate and permanent demise. _"_

Their eyes met. A question hung unceremoniously in the air.

Crowley swallowed, then nodded resolutely. "Tell me."

"Alright," said Aziraphale. Crowley felt his face get hot momentarily.

"Firstly, there has been a security breach,  _Up There._ Rumours have been flying, apparently, about what happened, or, more accurately, what did not happen That Day." He gave Crowley a pointed look. "Rumours of my involvement. Nothing substantial, I believe. The breach was quickly shut down, any angel unfortunate enough to hear anything they shouldn't have has been...dealt with."

He shuddered, and Crowley's fingers dug further into his shoulder.

"It appears, however, that they did not get to everyone, as evidenced by the fact that somebody has... _gone AWOL_ , so to speak."

Crowley hummed quietly. Looking down at his companion, he considered the consequences Aziraphale faced if Heaven caught wind of his influence on a potential defector. Or, alternatively, if they simply began paying more attention to their semi-prodigal agent. Hanging around with the wrong people was no laughing matter Up There - didn't he know it, really, you didn't have to be Satan to fall- but they had been left alone for so long! And then there was Adam. Surely they were protected on that front, Crowley reasoned. As long as they steered well clear of this whole debacle. 

"Ok," he said, finally. "Someone's gone rogue. What's the second thing?"

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose dramatically. "Secondly, they're in my back room!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby's first multi-chapter fic! Let me know if you're down to read more, I need validation.  
> Semi-inspired by the Gregory Alan Isakov song of the same name.  
> ~"Loving you was just like Raising Cain."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Excuse me?"

"I was just on my way to tell you!"

"To tell me there's a bloody great angel in your back room? Why didn't I sense it?" Crowley sniffed the air purposefully, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Load of nothing, that's what I sense!"

"He's under my protection!" Aziraphale shuffled uncomfortably. "For now, anyway. The last thing I want for either of us for the whole blessed Host descending from the heavens to my front door!"

"Fair point."

"Especially not _Gabriel,_ " Aziraphale fretted. He folded his arms tightly across his chest and muttered something awfully like blasphemy.

 Crowley grinned.

"Who is the feathery bastard then?"

"Oh, an archangel. You know, of the lowercase variety. "

Crowley raised a mysteriously well-groomed eyebrow. It was a well-known etymological failure that Heaven deigned both its highest and second-lowest order to be "archangels." It really was the least of their problems, though, all things considered.

"Yeah? Let's have a look, then."

"I'm not sure that would be such a good idea, Crowley. The poor dear hadn't even seen a _human_ before one accosted him about his eternal soul on Oxford Street today."

"Oof," said Crowley.

"He's still in shock."

"I'll bet."

"Crowley," Aziraphale warned.

The demon's yellow eyes had taken on a shiny, hungry glint.

"Go on, angel," he whined. "Just a peek? I haven't had a good adversary in years. No offense," he added hastily.

"None taken, I'm sure, and, anyway, you aren't so formidable yourself. Not since you lost the tongue, I'd say."

He mimicked the old, distinctly _snakier_ tongue half-heartedly.

"Flirt."

There was a creak somewhere in the vicinity. The pair turned around, apparently haven forgotten they had company.

"Oh, Sakiel, what are you doing out here?" Aziraphale moved quickly to the other angel (a small, grim thing, in garishly mismatched clothes) ostensibly to make sure he was alright, though Crowley would wager he was more in the business of creating a human-ish shield - though who for was anyone's guess.

"Sakiel, this is...a friend of mine. This is Crowley. Oh dear, please don't look at me like that, he's G-"

"Hey!" Crowley objected.

"He's not going to hurt you," Aziraphale said finally.

The rogue angel - Sakiel - did not look comforted. In fact, he looked constipated. He glared at Crowley with furious, disdainful eyes, and then back at Aziraphale with something even worse.

"I did not know," he muttered, skyward. "Forgive me, forgive me, Father."

"Hey now," Crowley said warily, "he's telling the truth. I'm not here to barbecue you or anything. I swear."

Sakiel glared. "Your word means nothing, Demon," he spat.

Aziraphale looked as if he was about to break into a cold sweat. "Come now, I'm sure we can all be reasonable here."

The archangel crossed himself feverishly.

"Oh shit, he's Catholic!"

"Crowley!"

"Sorry, I'm just pulling your feathers, Sack. Can I call you Sack?"

Aziraphale put his head in his hands, then made up his mind to somewhat take control of the situation. "Alright," he barked, "you've had your fun! Sit down and have a cup of tea or so help me God!"

Crowley looked at him peevishly, his glee waning under the glare of righteous anger. Sakiel must have noticed it too. Both acquiesced to the back room like cosmic schoolchildren.

Tea in hand, Sakiel looked no cuddlier. Even the outfit, (which, Crowley had to admit, made Aziraphale look like a European street-wear model in comparison)  did nothing to soften the harsh lines on his newly human face.

"So," Aziraphale began. "Why don't we start again. Sakiel, you were just telling me that you have some questions for me?"

Sakiel shook his head. "Not anymore. I'm afraid I've made a grave mistake." He put the flowery teacup down with a Clack.

Aziraphale frowned at the hairline fracture until it went away.

"I should not have come here."

Crowley could not help but feel responsible, but equally could not bring himself to feel sorry.

"Oh well. Lovely to see you, Sack," he said cheerily. "Do drop by in...I don't know, is 100 years too soon?"

"Crowley."

"No, Aziraphale." Sakiel stood up and shuddered. "The Demon is right."

He turned to face the other angel, shoulders tensed. "I strayed, but you have shown me the light. I only wish you could see it also, brother. I know now where asking _questions_ gets our kind."

Crowley bristled. "Don't talk to him like that, he gave you tea, you ungrateful little twerp. Hid your heavenly aura and everything!

Sakiel spun on his heels and stormed from the room.

Aziraphale looked helplessly at Crowley, then followed him out.

"Sakiel!"

Not knowing what else to do, he reached out a hand and took the angels shoulder in a vain attempt to stop him.

Sakiel ripped his shoulder away so viciously that Crowley winced.

"Do not touch me."

He looked utterly repulsed as he faced Aziraphale for one last time.

"I will tell you, brother, what I have seen today, out of Love."

"This ought to be good," Crowley mumbled.

"You have made a deal with the Devil."

"No, well, not really," Aziraphale protested weakly.

"Just the one devil, really," Crowley adds helpfully.

Sakiel closed his eyes, looking pained.

"You admit this? Brother?"

"Sakiel...you don't understand. We've been here, on earth, together, for 6000 years!"

"Not in the Biblical sense, you understand," Crowley forced a jovial smile at the sentiment.

"Crowley, please don't help," Aziraphale groaned.

"It matters not." Sakiel's shaking hand was on the door handle. "Aziraphale. You are teetering on the edge of damnation, and if you don't jump you will fall."

Aziraphale's face hardened. "It's not your place to judge me."

"Maybe not but, remember, I have read damning words concerning you from one far superior to both of us. I could not believe it of you before. I thought perhaps there was some explanation behind the redacted. Now I see it was not your redemption that was hidden, but your ruin. I'm sorry to tell you that mine will not be the last judgment you receive from Heaven over this. I am obligated to report what I have found here today."

Aziraphale said nothing. Crowley stared at him, trying desperately to read his response. The angel betrayed nothing. His mouth, usually so gentle, was a hard, thin line.

"Beg God forgiveness for what you have done, Aziraphale. Pray he has more mercy for you than his angels."

"I see," Aziraphale said.

Sakiel gave his brother-in-arms one last withering, pitying look. Then he was gone.

They stood in silence for a long while, Crowley and Aziraphale, looking at the place where the other angel had stood. Crowley searched for scorch marks. Hell just couldn't rival this sort of thing, he thought miserably.

Aziraphale appeared shell-shocked.

A knife twisted in Crowley's gut as he considered him. What if Aziraphale agreed with that pompous suit? What if this was some kind of ghastly wake-up call for him, one that led to Crowley's only and greatest friend leaving him in the dust and heading back to Heaven in a blaze of glory?

"He's bluffing," Crowley bluffed. "He's probably just gone to give the street preacher some tips."

Aziraphale gave him a wan smile.

"Do you know, my dear, I find myself quite exhausted."

"Not tired of me though, right?" Yeah, that was smooth.

"Oh Crowley." Aziraphale's shoulder's sagged. "I must apologise."

"Why?"

Crowley tried to put his hands in his pockets nonchalantly but missed. Then he realised his tight pants had only fake pockets. G _\- Someone_ knows why he thought they were a good idea.

Aziraphale reaches out blindly, takes the scrabbling hand gently in his own.

"I was just like him once, wasn't I?"

Crowley's mouth twists into a half-smile. "Don't sell yourself short, angel. You've always been a rebel."

"And you, my dear, have always been good to me. Even when I doubted you. Even when I have buried my head in the sand. As I too often have, when it comes to you. I've been unkind. Unforgivably so. I am sorry."

They are close enough now. They've been close before, and often, but the angel has softened his battle-worn walls, just enough, so that when their foreheads touch Crowley can feel the lack of it between them. It feels like heaven.

"No," says Crowley.

Reluctantly, he pulls back and holds the angel at arm's length. "I mean it, you know. You were never like that. You're nothing like him. Not where it counts. And G - You know I was never a Saint." He looked at Aziraphale's lips and yearned. "I never will be. You know."

"I don't care."

"You should. I'd never forgive myself if you fell over me."

"I have reason to believe I already have," said Aziraphale, radiating warmth.

Crowley started to laugh, hysterically. He felt very hot. "What's happening right now? Was that a _pick-up line_ , angel?" He tried to stifle his laughter and failed. His fashionably undone collar might have been choking him. He pulled at the invisible blight and tried to stop his eyes welling up.

"That depends," replied Aziraphale primly. "Is it working."

"Yes."

Their lips were agonisingly close, Crowley keened to close the gap. A hand closed over his mouth.

"I have to confess, Crowley, since I am teetering on the precipice of damnation, that all this time I have felt it necessary to draw a line between us, thin as it may be -"

Crowley whimpered against his palm, kissing it fervently.

"I had to differentiate us, to keep you at a distance. It's been increasingly difficult, for us both I know."

"Yes," Crowley pressed his teeth gently into the soft skin and bit.

Aziraphale's eyes fluttered shut, and he pulled the demons wandering hands to his own lips.

"I have to tell you now, Crowley, before I lose my courage, that I was a fool. To think I had more to lose by kissing you than not."

Now those hands, deceptively strong, wound into Crowley's hair, clutched at him.

"Because, the truth is, I've never felt close to anyone but you."

Crowley stopped struggling, gazed down at the angel, the only angel, the only one that mattered.

He was glowing.

This time when Crowley moved to kiss him, their lips met. They kissed like they never wanted to breathe again. Like they didn't care if Hell, Heaven, and all its emissaries walked through the door and set up camp in the back room.

At that moment there was no mind, no body, no soul, but that of an angel and a demon, kissing like their lives depended on it in a badly-reviewed antique bookshop in Soho.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The orders arrived the next morning. Sooner than either of them anticipated, given heavens bureaucracy.

Crowley eyed the parchment in Aziraphale's hands suspiciously. It had been something of an effort not to pre-emptively incinerate it with his mind immediately upon finding the blasted thing this morning when he went to make them tea on toast - on what should have been the happiest morning of their both their long existences, Crowley might add.

Aziraphale was wearing a somewhat worse-for-wear tartan dressing gown and an unhappy frown. In fact, he had never worn this particular dressing gown before. He had only assumed it should be comfortably loved, and thus it became. He had done rather the same with Crowley, actually.

"What's it say, angel?"

Aziraphale smiled tightly. "It appears I will be leaving us for a while, my dear."

Crowley frowned. "For how long?"

"I'm afraid it doesn't say. You know what Heaven is like, they must have their little mysteries."

When Crowley made no response, the angel sighed and dropped the Holy correspondence lightly on the countertop, pulling him into a warm embrace.

How strange, Crowley thought, for something to feel so normal, and so utterly, wonderfully shocking at the same time. He pressed his nose into the angel's fuzzy hair and sniffed a little.

Aziraphale smiled into his soft pajama-clad chest and stepped back.  

"I'll come back," he promised. "After all, we've talked ourselves out of worse than this, have we not?"

Crowley worried his bottom lip between his slightly-pointy teeth. "Sure, sure. But you had my help that time. I can't help you when you're- when you're Up There."

Aziraphale placed a reassuring hand on his bicep and squeezed. "We also had the help of some children, as I recall."

The demon forced his smile to behave. "I'm still not happy about this."

"I know."

"You should have let me have a go at His Lordships kneecaps on the way out. Sometimes a human solution is best, you know."

Aziraphale laughed humourlessly.

With a blink, he was clothed in what Crowley could only describe as the most Quintessentially Aziraphale outfit in his possession.

The sight was almost unbearable in the current circumstances. Surely no one had the right to look so terrible and lovely. Crowley shook his head in dismay, "you know, angel, nobody who knows what's good for them would wear the sheer amount of fabrics you do on a daily basis."

"And yet."  Aziraphale's mouth twitched as he fastened his coat. He looked up calmly.

"You're going now?" Panic closed Crowley's throat, and he felt the urge to hurl the angel back up the stairs and into bed if only to hide him. Practicality be damned, it just wasn't fair!

"Crowley, my dear...I know the timings rotten but, really, it's for the best. I should clear the air with my superiors sooner rather than later. I truly believe things will go my way."

"Yeah," Crowley allowed. "Things usually do."

Aziraphale beamed. "There. Now, I shan't kiss you goodbye, as much as you tempt me. That is how confidant I am that we have nothing at all to worry about. I mean, just think, it's not like this is _Your Lot_ we're talking about."

"Oof."

"Oh." Aziraphale looked up bashfully through blond eyelashes. "That was insensitive wasn't it?" 

"Bit. It's fine. You're right."

"No, no, no," Aziraphale said, he cupped Crowley's face delicately between his fingers. "I'm sorry. And I will be back soon."

He pressed a chaste kiss to Crowley's cheek.

Crowley touched it carefully, almost reverently.

"You lied," he marvelled.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley for a long moment, cataloguing every aspect of the man-shaped being he'd known since the beginning of time, as if he had never seen him before and might not again. He smiled one last time, and Crowley knew it was time for him to leave.

Crowley stopped outside the shop, his back to the book shop, face the dreary London sky.

He touched the place Aziraphale kissed him again, and then the peeling paint of the door behind him.

"Ciao," he whispered.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Crowley was in a bad mood. As the months dragged on, London began to experience a  wave of general misfortune. Cars backfired, keys were lost en masse, and even Burton Mews was congested. It was all well and good, thought Crowley, as he morosely glued a two-pound coin to the pavement, but it wasn't the same without Aziraphale.

At first, he'd stuck resolutely to his own flat and his usual non-Aziraphale related haunts (Nandos and suchlike). It was a matter of principle, he had an image to maintain! You let an angel take you to bed one time and next thing you know you're pining after him like some kind of Brontë-creation.

Oh, alright, so the pining might pre-date the Bronte sisters themselves, but the point still stands: Crowley was losing it. Case in point, he let himself into Aziraphale's shop and followed the now well-worn track to the angel's bedroom, fully intending to wrap himself in the lonely sheets and lounge in his aging Queen-sized bed. Looking good while doing so, obviously.

That's when the phone rang.

Crowley started. That wasn't the landline, surely it wasn't..? He'd quite forgotten Aziraphale even _owned_ a mobile telephone, so infrequently did he use it for anything other than an interesting paperweight. Crowley thought it had been a nice Christmas gift, personally.

He located the ringing monstrosity in the downstairs kitchenette, in the biscuit tin of all places. He yanked up the antenna.

"Hello?"

Static jumbled out of the receiver. Crowley grimaced, and London's citizens breathed a sigh of relief as their signals returned to a stable, even unprecedented, level of usability.

"Sorry about that. Aziraphale? Is that you?"

"Crowley?"

Crowley stopped breathing momentarily and ran to the window with the phone, scrubbing away some filth as if expecting to see the angel standing there in the back alley, surrounded by empty takeaway containers, wings akimbo.

"Aziraphale," he said, "tell me where you are,  I'll come and get you."

"I...I'm at your flat."

"Oh." Crowley coughed, embarrassed. "I'm at your place."

"I know, dear."

He could actually hear the ribbing smile on the end of the line. Crowley's heart soared in his chest.

"Alright, good. I'll be there in five minutes, give or take a pedestrian. "

Aziraphale was quiet for a second. "Actually, I was going to suggest we meet somewhere more...public?"

"Oh," Crowley said. He hesitated, uncertain for the first time. "I see, um. St James'?"

Aziraphale sounded relieved. "Oh, yes. I'll see you shortly then."

"Of course. Before I go, angel, can I ask you something?"

Aziraphale paused. "Yes," he replied at last.

"Why did you call me on the mobile? You hate this thing."

"Ah," Aziraphale said, pleased to be asked a question he could actually answer. "Because They can't hear us here. They've only just gone landline," he added significantly.

Crowley's heart sank a little. So they weren't in the clear yet after all.

"One more thing-" he started.

"Don't ask me that," Aziraphale stopped him, sounding strained. "Not yet."

Crowley swallowed. He nodded. "Ok. I'll be seeing you."

Aziraphale made a little choking sound, then hung up.

***

The ducks, at least, were calm. As calm as ducks ever are, anyway.

Crowley half-heartedly threw one a piece of stale, brown bread. It was swarmed immediately by its quacking brethren. He pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders. Unfortunately, he'd chosen it for style over function, and he found himself wishing he'd worn the thick, blueish scarf Aziraphale had knitted him sometime circa 1957. He'd claimed to have knitted it, anyhow. Crowley held a sneaking suspicion there had been some minor miracles involved. 

Crowley heard him before he saw him but, given the circumstances and with much effort, Crowley waited. Slowly, he turned to face Aziraphale. It was impossible not to smile. The force of it almost cracked his facade.

"Speak of the devil," he murmured.

"I heard that," said the angel.

Aziraphale came closer. He looked paler, pinched somehow. Crowley appraised him shrewdly. He must have lost a few pounds too. At least seven. It didn't look right on him.

"May I ask you now?"

Aziraphale's eyes crinkled around the edges as he smiled. It was warm as Crowley remembered, but more restrained, more careful.

"If you wish."

Crowley pushed his glasses up into his hair, determined to look his friend in the eye. Any humans in the vicinity suddenly found themselves keeping an extraordinarily wide birth of the couple.

"How are you?" He asked.

Aziraphale squirmed. "I am perfectly fine."

Crowley stared at him, "you look like hell."

The angel smiled weakly. "I can assure you I haven't been there. Really, Crowley, I'm _fine._ "

Something inside Crowley melted upon hearing Aziraphale say his name again. He was the only one to ever said his name like that. Even in the midst of their worst disagreements, even exasperated, Aziraphale said his name like a prayer.

Crowley was still staring. To his credit, Aziraphale did not shrink away or look uncomfortable under the scrutiny. In fact, he seemed to relax into Crowley's relentless gaze, meeting it fondly.

"Ok," Crowley nodded at last. "But there's something else, isn't there? You ought to tell me."

Aziraphale bowed his head. "You are right, of course."

"Shall we do the Ritz, you could tell me over a good hot meal?" Crowley suggested hopefully.

Aziraphale looked up and shifted self-consciously. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

Crowley bit his tongue and hissed under his breath. "Why not?" he asked, as calmly as he could manage. " _Tell me_ , angel. Whatever  it is they've told you, asked, threatened, we can sort it together, ok?"

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it again. His eyebrows knitted together as he fought to say the words. Even the thought was bitter in his mouth. He blinked rapidly.

"Aziraphale - "

"I'm sorry, Crowley. I should never have - what happened, with us...I made a mistake."

Crowley's stomach twisted into a Celtic knot. "No. Don't you dare say that. That's not you talking, Aziraphale, and we both know it."

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I have to do this."

Crowley's eyes burned. "No, you don't. Stop it."

The angel swayed a little on his feet, looking sick. "We can still be friends," he said weakly.

Crowley choked on air.

"I'm so sorry, Crowley," Aziraphale's hand reached to comfort, halting mid-air. They both looked at it wretchedly. He lowered his arm.

"This can't be happening," Crowley exploded. "I don't believe it, Aziraphale."

Anger began to radiate from him like heat.

"After everything we've been through, you're going to dump me, literally dump me, why? Because you were told to? Because Heaven told you to! That's bullshit! You absolute bastard. After everything we..." he went on incoherently, running his hands wildly through his hair. "You can't possibly be serious. This isn't you. You just tell me, tell me whose kneecaps to aim for, and we can talk about this like grown-ups, alright? Alright? Aziraphale!"

Aziraphale looked like he was about to throw up.

Crowley moved to take a handful of his lapels. His hands caught air as Aziraphale leapt back in panic. "Crowley!"

The terror in the angel's eyes brought Crowley crashing down to earth. Never, never had Aziraphale avoided his touch. Never had he flinched away from him like that.

Crowley's hands curled into fists as he took several deep, labored breaths, thinking hard.

"You can't tell me why?"

Aziraphale shook his head miserably.

"Alright. Ok. The phone?" he tried.

"I can't risk it. Gabriel, he's savvier than the others."

"Gabriel?" Crowley was white with anger. " _That_ bastard's responsible for this? I'll kill him, I swear it-"

"No," Aziraphale said, with such horrified authority that Crowley stuttered.

He gaped at the angel."You're protecting him?"

"No," Aziraphale said firmly. "No." He stepped closer, still maintaining a safe distance. His hand twitched towards Crowley's. "My dear, I am protecting _you_."

Their eyes bore into each other. He could feel Aziraphale's sincerity, as well as his fear, and something else. He knew it to be love and, with that knowledge, no part of him felt unharmed.

"Please, promise me you won't do anything rash, Crowley? This way we still get to see each other. Not as much, not like it was." Aziraphale stifled a sob. "We got by this way for 6000 years. Why can't we again?"

Because we made love, Crowley thought. Because I don't want to go another day without showing you how much I love you in every way a person can be loved. Because I can't bear the distance between us. Because I know you feel the same way.

"Of course," was what he said instead. "It'll be like nothing ever happened."

Pain ripped across Aziraphale's features, and for a small, cruel moment, Crowley was glad.

The moment passed, leaving only shame in its wake.

"I promise you, Aziraphale. You're right, we'll make it work."

Aziraphale hiccupped. "Do you really mean it? You're not going to do anything stupid?"

"Yes," said Crowley. "I promise."

Some lies were worth telling. As they fed the ducks together that evening, Crowley began to formulate a plan.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Of course, when it came down to it, Crowley found himself utterly frustrated. It occurred to him that the person most disposed to help him currently appeared to be attempting to bury himself alive in first-editions. In fact, Aziraphale was so preoccupied with his books that Crowley's initial idea to raid the angel's bookstore for useful treatises was quickly abandoned. If he hadn't been so hurt, he might have wondered exactly what the angel was  _doing._  He certainly wasn't pricing them. As it was, Crowley swaddled himself in self-pity and retreated to lick his wounds elsewhere. But where could he go? Incidentally, that's how he found himself standing awkwardly on the doorstep of Anathema Device, former Professional Descendent, Whale Enthusiast, and Known Witch.

The door swung open and the young occultist peered out. "Anthony Crowley, I've been expecting you for a while now."

Crowley stared. "Oh? A prediction was it?"

"No. You've been in my driveway for at least 15 minutes. And I could hear Fat Bottomed Girls through my bathroom window." Anathema smiled widely, "Do come in."

Crowley unglued his traitorous shoes from the floor and blessed quietly as he followed her into Jasmine Cottage.  Can't a demon take a little time to psych himself up anymore?

"May I take your coat?" Anathema asked.

"Um, sssure," Crowley's coat was whisked away with a hiss of its own. "Hey, how do you know my name, anyway?"

Anathema reappeared, brown eyes blinking up at him from behind an unreasonably long fringe. "Armageddon, wasn't it?"

"Well, yeah." Crowley followed her into a well-lit yellow kitchen. Every surface was cluttered with various trinkets and tomes; the angel would have been proud. Crowley raised an eyebrow at her, "Only thing is, you're not meant to know about that."

Anathema considered him. "If you believe that then why are you here, at a supposed strangers house, looking for help?" She busied herself filling an ancient whistling tea kettle, setting it over the stove, which lit thoughtfully when it clocked the demon de-wobbling chair legs with his mind and a small pout.

Crowley tried to come up with a way to answer the question that didn't involve the words "spooky" or "feelings" and came up empty. Anathema bustled about the cupboards, conjuring up two ornately flowered cups and saucers (though not literally, she was still working on that). "What would you prefer?" she asked him, gesturing to a well-stocked tea shelf. I've got English Breakfast, Earl Gray...Jasmine?"

"Lovely."

The tea kettle whistled, surely sooner than it ought to have. Crowley gave it an approving nod.

"So," Anathema prompted him, "in answer to my earlier question?" She placed the hot, excessively floral-scented cup of tea before him.

 Crowley took it carefully between his hands, allowing the heat to seep into his unnaturally cold skin. He thought bitterly of Aziraphale's warm hands. Warm body, too. He hissed under his breath. It was all extremely undignified, despite his best efforts to the contrary. "Well, it's just that I distinctly remember The A- Adam saying it'd be best if you lot all just sort of...forgot about the whole Armageddon business." He had the decency to look contrite as he said it. "Not my doing, I assure you. Not my business what you do or don't know. You seem remarkably well equipped for it. I was just under the impression that Adam, you know..." unable to express what it was she knew in words, he mimed finger guns in the general direction of her head and made some second-rate laser sounds. "You know?"

Anathema sipped her tea demurely. "You mean he wiped my memories?"

"Exactly!" said Crowley, pleased, until he wasn't. "Sorry."

Anathema giggled. "I'm just winding you up, I know what he did. I had a very stern word with him about it, too. I told him, I said you can't just go around messing with people's heads without permission. It's not polite, and it's certainly no way to treat friends."

"Oh," said Crowley, "and he gave you your memories back, just like that?"

"Yep," she sang.

Crowley gulped, increasingly glad of his decision to leave the Antichrist out of this one. Godson or not, that kid was scary. "How is young Adam?" he asked nonchalantly.

Anathema grinned and drained her tea in three big gulps. "He's wonderful, thank you for asking. I'm sure he'd love to say hullo?"

"Ngk. Maybe another day," Crowley managed. A demon could only take so much deathly fear at a time. "Thanks," he added, as an afterthought. "To be entirely honest, I don't know why I'm here. It just felt like the place to be, I suppose. Maybe I hoped you'd remember."

"Alright," Anathema sat opposite him at the worm-holed wooden table, elbows out pointedly. "What's all this about? Is it about him?"

"Him who?"

Anathema gave the demon a look which the world over meant it was time to cut the shit.

"Oh, Aziraphale? Yeah, it's about him."

"Mm-hmm?" Anathema pressed.

Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It felt wrong to bring a human, any human, into this, but it was Aziraphale! And he was desperate. "The thing is," he started, "ThethingisIneedtosummonGabrielandIcan'tbecauseImightgoupinapuffofsmokeand-"

"Whoa," Anathema interrupted him, appalled. "That's your plan? To summon the Archangel Gabriel himself and, then what?"

"Unless you have any better ideas," Crowley retorted sharply. "He's behind this somehow, he's done something to Aziraphale. I'll know _how_ to kick his smarmy arse when I see him. Probably." Crowley's tea had turned to slightly floral whiskey, which he downed promptly.

Anathema looked intensely sceptical, as if she had approximately one thousand ways to rip Crowley a new one but felt too badly for him to begin. Eventually, she sighed and scrubbed at her eyes, wiping day-old mascara into her bushy eyebrows in the process.

"So," Crowley tried again, "will you help me?"

"Will I help you summon an Archangel to my kitchen? Hell no."

Crowley glared at her. "And why not?"

Anathema thought for a moment. "I have to confess something."

Crowley clutched the dainty teacup between his hands with intent. "Yes?"

"I've seen Aziraphale. He came to see me a few days ago. He was in quite a state himself."

"You what? Why in the Hells didn't you tell me this earlier?" He tasted the air for remnants of the angel's little excursion to the countryside, equally annoyed and thrilled when he found them, notes of Aziraphale. Damn him.

Anathema held her own, jaw set stubbornly. "Because I promised him I wouldn't."

Crowley crumpled slightly in his chair. "What did he have to say to you that he can't tell me? No offense, but..."

Anathema patted his hand gently, prising the victimised teacup from his grip. "I'll thank you not to break my family heirlooms," she said firmly, but without malice.

"I need your help," Crowley repeated, "to summon Gabriel, so I can get Aziraphale back. Please, I can't say The Words myself. I'll implode, or something!"

Anathema was unconvinced. "Summoning Angels is, from what I understand, not recommended."

"It sure as Hell-bloody Heaven- isn't; I met Dee once and let me tell you -" he cut himself off hurriedly, "But if you helped, I think I could protect you, get you well out of earshot, as it were. You wouldn't have to be involved past, you know, some chanting, maybe some  light chalk-work?"

Anathema gave him a pointed look. "Do you want to know what I think?" she asked.

Crowley nodded emphatically. 

"I think you should call him," she said simply.

"Chri-bloody Heaven, if that was the solution don't you think I'd have done it already?"

"Well, have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Tried calling him?"

Crowley laughed sardonically, feeling stupid but not knowing why yet. "Even if I haven't, it's because I can't. Aziraphale says we're being watched. At least, he implied it."

"Oh." Anathema looked as if she sorely wished she still had her tea to stare into, or perhaps something to do with her hands. She chipped at the peeling black paint of her nails with patent interest.

Crowley gritted his teeth. "Is there something else I should know?"

Anathema considered her options briefly, before settling on the truth. "It's just when I saw Aziraphale, he had some ideas of his own about...fixing your situation. I was debating trying to get in touch with you myself, actually, I was worried about him. And, well, he said he might have exaggerated an angelic-stalking situation to buy some time, so you wouldn't try and stop him, you know? And now you're here, clearly mental as well. It just doesn't bode well."

"He what?" Crowley felt like he was suddenly underwater and full-on mortal. Drowning.

"Don't be angry with him," Anathema was saying as if it were possible. "Crowley, he's a mess. I told him, I know you're desperate, but that's suicidal! I think I got through to him, he said he'd rethink, go back to the books, you know. I told him the same thing I told you: you need to talk! That's all! You're both so bloody stupid!"

That stopped Crowley's meltdown train on its tracks. "I'm not stupid, I'm over 6000 years old."

Anathema had to cover the resulting giggle with her oversized sweater sleeve.

Crowley resurfaced from his watery mind-grave as she shook her head in defeat. "That's all I have to say on the matter," she told him sternly, "Talk about it. Off you go!"

Crowley stood up, belatedly reaching to the conclusion that this conversation was over. "Oh, I'll do more than talk to him."

"Yes, I heard about that, too," she said knowingly.

Crowley's face turned beetroot red. "About the...that's not what I -oh my G- Aziraphale! Told the whole blessed world, has he?"

"Oh, relax," Anathema said, shepherding him firmly to the door. "Just little old me. Really, Crowley, he came here with an equally stupid solution, and I told him exactly what I told you."

Crowley stumbled out of the front door and looked back at her worriedly. "Equally stupid?"

"Don't worry, I'm sure he's seen reason. I think he really listened!" Anathema reassured him with a confident smile.

This didn't fill Crowley with hope.

"Yeah, listened...Well, anyway, I'm gonna give him a call. Thanks for, you know," he waved his hand vaguely.

"No problem," said Anathema. "Let me know when you two have sorted this out so we can all go and see Adam together, yeah? A picnic, maybe. It's just lovely at this time of year."

"Uh, yeah," said Crowley, already halfway into the long-suffering Bentley. "Ciao," he called as Anathema shut the door snugly behind her, the satisfied smile of a job well done on her face.

***

True to his word, Crowley dialled Aziraphale's number. After several rings, he picked up.

"-Blasted thing," he was mumbling. "Hello, Crowley?"

"Aziraphale," he said smoothly, putting on his most charming voice. "We need to talk."

The angel was silent for a long moment, reliving their long history with those four innocent words. It never ended well. Well, usually never. "Yes," he said at last. "Usual place?"

"Nuh, not this time," said Crowley, "how about Jasmine Cottage?"

"J-Jasmine Cottage, you say?"

"Yeah, that's the one. Friend of yours lives there."

Aziraphale swore.

Crowley spluttered. "What did you just say?"

Aziraphale groaned. "Nothing, nothing. Crowley, are you at Jasmine Cottage?"

"Maybe I am, are you?"

"Oh, Crowley! Please let me explain; In person!"

"Nope," Crowley popped the P childishly, too riled up to care. "You can tell me over the phone, which, by the way, I know is not being monitored by angelic entities 24/7."

"Crowley, you have to understand, I was so afraid of what you'd do, how you might react-"

"How  _I'd_ react? Angel, I'm not the one who blew-up a 6000-year-old relationship up because some feathered bureaucrat asked me to!"

"You know full well he didn't  _ask_ me to," Aziraphale snapped.

"No, Aziraphale, I _don't_ know because you won't bloody well tell me anything! You've got 10 seconds to start telling the truth before I come over there and start taking my begonias back, one petal at a time!"

"Oh, Crowley, don't be like that," Aziraphale whined, "and, anyway, you wouldn't dare!"

"5 seconds," said Crowley.

"Alright, alright!" Aziraphale shouted, he cleared his throat uncomfortably and whispered, "He threatened to take away my Free Will!"

Crowley froze.

"Are you still there?" Aziraphale asked tinnily from the end of the line. "Crowley, please, can you imagine?"

Crowley attempted to speak, but his tongue felt like lead in his mouth. He settled for clasping the top-heavy, top-of-the-line mobile to his ear, and listening.

Aziraphale continued, though it obviously grieved him to do so, pouring his heart out into the receiver. "They wouldn't even give me the mercy of wiping my memory! Thousands upon thousands of years...all our time on this earth together. It would be like I had died, only to be forced to walk the earth with my mouth shut and my mind closed until the sun exploded! Imagine being able to see, and feel, and love, but - " he broke off. "Are you there, my dear. Please understand. What's given can be taken away! Free will belongs to the humans, it always has. We've just been...borrowing it. And you, Crowley, my love! I've no right to bring you into my punishment. I'd rather see you alive, be near you and never touch you again, than to ever see you hurt because of me, because of my own selfish desires!"

Crowley couldn't stand it any longer. "But, Aziraphale, I am hurt. _This_ hurts! You should have told me!"

"I know," Aziraphale cried, "I know, you deserve better! I'm sorry, I just wanted to keep you safe. I may have lied about the extent of it, Heaven is stretched so thin these days, however, I am almost certainly under observation for the foreseeable future, truly I wasn't lying about that!"

Crowley exhaled. "Gabriel?"

A beat, then, "Yes."

"Right. Aziraphale?"

"Yes?"

"Meet me here, at Jasmine Cottage, ok?"

Aziraphale breathed a sigh of undiluted relief. "Yes, of course. And Crowley? Will you accept my sincerest apologies?"

Crowley clutched Aziraphale's voice closer to his ear. "I forgive you. Just, come quickly." He crossed his fingers behind his back, hating himself despite it all. "I'll meet you here."

 _Will you forgive me?_  He wanted to ask, but he didn't. Instead, he absorbed  Aziraphale's feverish apologies, his promises that, together, they would sort this whole mess out. Crowley bit his tongue and willed himself to hang up. Because, now he knew what he had to do, he wanted Aziraphale as far out of the firing line as possible. With no good reason to send him to Mongolia, Lower Tadfield would have to do.

The Bentley purred to life as he pulled smoothly out of the gravel driveway. As he did so, Crowley, the Serpent of Eden, did something he had never dared to do before. Demons didn't pray, as a general rule. But weren't rules made to be broken? Crowley had always thought so. And so, with sweat beading on his forehead, he reached out to the Heavens.

"Gabriel?" he called. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Dear Gabriel." He grimaced. "Dear Gabriel. It's me, Crowley, I think you've heard of me. Anyway," he wiped his forehead, trembling. Perfect, green hills rolled past the windows, too-fast, Aziraphale would have said. Crowley ceased even pretending to drive and, with great effort, pressed his hands together. "Gabriel, I have a proposition for you!"

Static filled Crowley's brain, too hot to hear over. Crowley bit back a scream. "Gabriel?"

The static transmuted into burning tendrils, smothering Crowley from the inside out, filling his nose and throat, clutching at his very brain. Behind Crowley's dark glasses, his eyes glowed white. This time, he could not hold back the scream that wrecked through his whole body. Holy fire prodded his skull curiously. He did not die.

"Bloo-For GOD'S sake," Crowley roared. "Gabriel?"

A deep, irritating voice filled his head. "Testing," it said, "is this thing on?"

Crowley gasped. He laughed manically. "Do you want to hear my proposal, Archangel?"

The light made a noncommittal noise.

"Well, you're gonna hear it!" Crowley's smelled toast, saw smoke fill the cab of the car.

"Oh, go on," the Archangel said. "Make my day."

"I challenge you to a duel!" Crowley hollered, every inch of him on fire. "Hand-to-hand combat, no funny business. If I win, I join up; I defect from Hell, what's left of you and yours get to torment me for the rest of eternity, with Aziraphale by my side!"

Gabriel appeared to think about it, taking his time, weighing the marked inconvenience of coming to earth against the satisfaction of smiting the catalyst of original sin, probably. That one ought to guarantee a promotion at the very least. "And if I win?" he asked sweetly.

Crowley roared. If he didn't hang up this Holy-Phone very soon he would be nothing but a pile of ash. Gabriel knew this. He smiled.

"If you win I guess you send me right back to hell."

"Oh no," Gabriel smiled bigger, "there won't be enough of you left, Demon."

The connection went dead in a blaze of Heavenly fire. Funny, Crowley thought - his eyes, mercifully yellow again, rolled back into his head, and his miraculously uncharred body was caught by the Bentley's cool leather seats -  it felt a lot like Hell.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

So it was that Crowley found himself in St James Park with an old tire iron in his back pocket, about to square up to an Archangel (and not in a sexy way). At the sight of the adversary himself, Crowley began to sweat. Truth be told, he hadn't really thought this far ahead. No, all he had been thinking about was Aziraphale and the noble way in which he was about to solve all their problems. Aziraphale might think him a philistine, but he had seen basically all the great romances of stage and screen over the years, so he knew a thing or two about grand gestures.  

Gabriel was tall, dark, and handsome (because of course he was, Crowley thought bitterly). He also had impeccable dress-sense. This was because Gabriel saw himself as the kind of man who inspired the poor to better themselves via viewing his collection of expensive cashmere sweaters. Of course, this is also why he looked like an Absolute Bastard.

Gabriel popped a pair of Chanel sunglasses into his slicked-back hair and smiled. "Nice day out," he called.

Crowley sauntered vaguely closer.

The ducks quacked happily in the distance.

"So," said Gabriel. "You're the one they call Crawly?"

"It's Crowley, actually," said Crowley.

Gabriel laughed, "Oh, I'm just messing with ya. I know rather a lot about you."

The Archangel had begun to glow menacingly, and, Bloody Hell, was he actually getting taller?

"Look," said Crowley, he reached back for his tire iron, "Maybe we can talk this over, come to some agreement?"

Gabriel laughed again. "I don't know if you know this, _Crowley,_ but most angels would consider making a deal with a demon, oh, I don't know, traitorous?"

"Leave Aziraphale out of this," Crowley growled. "If you want to pummel someone, make it me."

"Is that what you think this is?" Gabriel asked. Then he grinned. "Truly, your proposition interested me. I happen to think you would make a rather good angel. Perhaps more so than a certain...mutual friend of ours."

" _What?"_

That was when a roar of tires broke the still Spring air, prompting birds to flee en-mass.

Crowley recognised the car that screamed to a halt outside the Park gates. He could see the "I Break For Animals" bumper sticker from here. He groaned, with feeling.

Gabriel looked utterly unsurprised if a little disappointed. Aziraphale appeared before him like a crack of lightning. Across the park, a slightly skinny young woman in black was tearing after him, yelling "Wait for me!"

Crowley almost fell backwards as Aziraphale's wings ripped through his clothes, sending a strong gust of air in his direction. The powerful appendages beat violently for a moment before settling to block him entirely from the Archangels formerly smug gaze.

"Come now, Aziraphale," he was saying, his tone implied a patronising smile. Crowley craned to see over his angel's blockade. "Calm yourself, brother. Surely you know he was never in any real danger? We're creatures of Mercy, after all."

"Mercy?" Aziraphale was shaking with anger. "You had no right to come here, you gave me your word! How dare you look at him?"

Gabriel ruffled. "You forget yourself, brother."

"You broke your word, _brother,_  so now I am going to break mine." He reached back and before Crowley could register what was happening, the tire iron was out of his shaking hands and in Aziraphale's. Suddenly, it was on fire.

"Aziraphale, no!" Crowley screamed, horrified. He grasped for the newly fatal weapon to no avail. Aziraphale had gone full Avenging Angel. It was terrifying, and it was also making Crowley feel a bit funny.

"Oh my," Gabriel said. He had stopped smiling. In its place was an expression of pure shock. "Oh my, he said again. "You guys are really in the deep end, huh?"

Aziraphale held his flaming tire iron defensively, still vibrating with emotion. "What?"

Gabriel's eyes were wide, though still more amused than the situation called for in Crowley's opinion.  "I thought you guys were just plotting against Heaven, are you two _in love?"_

Crowley stepped out to stand beside Aziraphale, his own wings stretching out behind him, relishing the exposure. They looked at each other, colouring pink.

When they spoke it was at the same time.

"Well actually - "

"If you must know - "

They were cut off as a heavy pair of vegan Doc Martins stomped up to them. Anathema panted as she came to a halt by the three supernatural beings. She put her hands on her knees and breathed heavily for a moment, before pointing an accusing finger at one of God's Archangels. "You're full of shit," she said finally.

They all stared at her, mouths agape.

"Who me?" Gabriel asked, clutching at his lilac polo neck and looking around bemused.

Anathema caught her breath and stood up straight beside Aziraphale and Crowley. She looked at the flaming tire iron and rolled her eyes. "Why is it always straight to violence with you people, my word! Put that out and give it back," she demanded.

Sheepishly, Aziraphale did as he was told.

"Mr. Gabriel," began Anathema, "with the deepest respect, you don't have the authority to take away anyone's Free Will, do you?"

Aziraphale spluttered.

Gabriel picked some non-existent lint from his sleeve. "Well..." he enunciated slowly.

"What's more," she interrupted him, "you're not doing this on anyone else's say so, are you?"

Crowley began to laugh. "She's right, isn't she?" He took Aziraphale's hand tightly in his own and squeezed. "You're bluffing."

Gabriel looked more than a little hot around the collar. All humour was gone from his face now and he frowned deeply at Aziraphale, who appeared as livid as he was ecstatic. "Maam, please, this is official business. You couldn't possibly understand the bureaucracy of Heaven- "

"Oh My God!" Aziraphale exclaimed.

Everyone stared at him. Crowley giggled wildly.

"Now _really,_ Aziraphale," Gabriel chastised, "is there any Holy Law you uphold? I have tried and tried to bring you back into the fold; I have, at great personal expense, attempted to do what many in Heaven call impossible in returning you, Prodigal One, and this is how you repay me? It seems you're pathologically delinquent."

Aziraphale ignored the sermon with enthusiasm. "Anathema is right. That's why I couldn't find anything about it in my readings. You threatened me with something you are not capable of...you lied." Despite it all, he felt betrayed.

Gabriel shrugged, nonchalant. "As I said, I was trying to help you, Aziraphale. You've forgotten where your true loyalties lie. Maybe I should apologise. You've been down here alone for far too long. Perhaps we shunned you. No," he looked ashamed now, " _I_ shunned you. I was responsible for you and I...Well, I am sorry for what I did, but this...contorting with demons and witches?" He scoffed. Anathema glared.  "This isn't you, Aziraphale. You resent me, I know why, but surely you want to please Our Father?"

Crowley gripped Aziraphale's hand anxiously in his. The angel squeezed back reassuringly. From the corner of his eye, Crowley could tell his partner was barely holding it together. His eyes were wet and his face expressionless. Confusion emanated from him like smoke, striking fear into Crowley's very soul.

"He hasn't said anything about my relationship with Crowley, has He?"

Gabriel sighed, "No offence, _little brother,_ but I think I know His Will a little better than you, now don't I? When's the last time you visited home without a warrant?"

Crowley spoke up, "So He hasn't said anything then? No word from the big guy?"

"Does it really matter?" Gabriel exploded. "You," he pointed at Crowley, "are a demon! Aziraphale, listen! You have a place with us if you will only accept it. I want you to come back into the daylight where you rightly belong, but if you insist on staying here in the dirt with the worms, well, sure, I don't have the authority to stop you!"

Anathema gave a little cheer.

Gabriel hung his head tiredly. He looked up at Aziraphale from under his dark hair, fallen from its gel prison, with inhuman eyes. As inhuman as Crowley's, Aziraphale thought, though not half as beautiful. He looked to Crowley, stood at his right-hand side. As tall as he stood, Aziraphale could sense his anxiety, and he couldn't stand it any longer.

"Gabriel, there's something I've always wanted to tell you," Aziraphale said.

"Yes, brother?"

"Go to Hell."

Crowley snorted, shaking with laughter and relief.

Aziraphale turned to face him, taking his face in his hands, his touch as gentle as the feathers fanning out behind him, glowing white in the light of the setting sun. "And you," Aziraphale said, "I do love you, do you know that? Most ardently."

Crowley glowed. "I love that movie."

Aziraphale laughed, leaning so that their foreheads touched, just for a moment.

"And, um, Aziraphale...I love you too." Crowley whispered it into Aziraphale, wrapped in his arms and his wings. They basked in the light together, feeling glorious.

From what felt like miles away, Gabriel cleared his throat.

They broke apart reluctantly, if only a little. Aziraphale held the demon defiantly to his side, it was all Crowley could do not to purr.

"You," Gabriel gestured the smitten demon. "Take care of him, will ya?"

Crowley looked at him in surprise. "Of course," he said. He smiled into Aziraphale's shoulder. "Not that he needs it."

"That's what you think," muttered Anathema from beside them.

And with that, Gabriel was gone. No puff of smoke, no pile of ash.

Crowley looked closely at the place where he had stood, then to Anathema, then back at Aziraphale. "So," he questioned, "what was your plan?"

Aziraphale squirmed. "Oh, it doesn't matter now, does it?"

Anathema crossed her arms. "Oh no you don't," she said. "You tell him or I swear to Persephone I'll bang your heads together!"

Crowley looked him expectantly.

"Oh, very well. I was looking into...falling."

_"You-fucking-what?"_

"I was going to summon Beelzebub and make a deal."

"Jesus! Satan! What were you thinking, angel, you could have been _killed!_ You could have FALLEN."

"That was rather the idea...Oh don't look at me like that, we're both fine, aren't we? Really, dear, let's talk about this over dinner, I'm getting a bit peckish, aren't you?"

"Don't think you're getting out of it that easily! I'm furious! Though now you mention it, I could eat."

Anathema watched them argue, an angel and a demon, fighting the urge to laugh. At last, they turned to leave, then, remembering they were not alone, they turned back, apologised profusely, thanked her kindly, and invited her to dinner, which she politely refused.

"If you really want to thank me, you'll come to Adam Young's birthday party next week," she told them. "It's fancy-dress, and I happen to know he'd love to see his Godfathers again."

Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other in concern.

"I knew you wouldn't let him down!" She beamed as the pair nodded warily. "Oh, and by the way, I'm in charge of entertainment and Adam had a very special request. Can either of you do magic tricks?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and cheering me on, I hope you've enjoyed the final chapter of my first-ever multi-chapter fic (but hopefully not the last!)


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